Accused

by Mark Gimenez

  "Eating lunch." He held up the beer can. "I'm on a strict liquid diet." He nodded at Scott. "Who's the spectator?"

  "That the infamous yardage book?" Scott said.

  "Got one for every course on tour. Make 'em myself, walk off the exact yardage from every tree and sprinkler head to every pin position on every green." He glanced up at Scott. "Who are you and what the fuck does infamous mean?"

  "It means notorious, and I'm Scott Fenney."

  "Rebecca's husband."

  "Lawyer."

  Now Goose smiled. He stuck a hand out, and they shook. Goose had big hands.

  "I'll contribute to her defense fund," Goose said.

  "Better save it for your own lawyer."

  Goose pulled his hand back and frowned. "The hell's that supposed to mean?"

  "Where were you last Thursday?"

  "Caddying for Pete, at the Atlantic Open."

  "Where's that?"

  "Orlando," Nick said. "Pete played Thursday and Friday, didn't make the cut. Means he didn't play the weekend."

  "Well, actually," Goose said, "Pete didn't play Friday either. He DQ'd Thursday."

  "DQ'd?"

  "Yeah, he seemed real out of sorts at the pro-am and right from the git-go on Thursday. Opened with a four-putt snowman—"

  Nick, to Scott: "An eight … number eight looks like a little snowman."

  —"then threw his putter all the way to the second tee. I knew we were in for a long day."

  "Why'd he DQ?" Nick asked.

  "Wrote down the wrong scores for two holes, signed the card."

  Nick, to Scott: "Automatic disqualification." Back to Goose: "Why didn't I hear about that?"

  "Maybe because Pete's a grown man and don't figure he's gotta report in to his snot-nosed agent every fuckin' day." Goose shrugged. "That, or he forgot."

  Goose's attention was diverted by a flashy girl in a short skirt and a halter top slinking by on high-heeled wedges. Goose leaned over as if trying to look up her skirt.

  "She's gonna make a golfer happy tonight," he said.

  "Now that's a sweet two-piece," Nick said.

  "Two-piece?" Scott said.

  "She's wearing exactly two pieces of clothing: the halter top and miniskirt. Nothing else touching that body."

  "I think I'm having a Cialis moment," Goose said.

  "I may need to seek immediate medical attention," Nick said, 'cause this might last more than four hours."

  Nick and Goose laughed and fist-punched. They had bonded over a two-piece. She wasn't alone. There were many young, beautiful women wearing only two pieces of clothing in attendance—not as many as at a college football game, but more than Scott would have expected at a pro golf tournament.

  "Groupies for golfers," Goose said.

  "Bald, pudgy, out-of-shape bastards," Nick said. "But they got gorgeous gals hanging on their arms because they're rich. You know why they don't wear underwear?"

  "The players?"

  "The two-pieces."

  "I hate to even guess."

  Nick grinned like a teenage boy with a girlie magazine. "They sit right behind the green, wait for the players to walk up, then flash 'em a crotch shot."

  Goose chuckled. "Shit, every time me and Trey walked onto a green, there was a chorus line of crotches. Network guys had to be careful not to broadcast that across America on a Sunday afternoon."

  Scott tried to refocus the conversation on his murder investigation.

  "Goose, did you stay in Orlando Thursday night?"

  Goose reluctantly pulled his eyes off the two-piece. "Nope. Flew back to Austin."

  "What time did you get in?"

  "About five."

  "It's only a four-hour drive from Austin to Galveston. You could've been there by nine at the latest. Time of death was after midnight."

  "I didn't kill him."

  "You ever been to his beach house?"

  "I ain't never been to Galveston."

  "You didn't travel with Trey?"

  Goose snorted. "Don't work that way. Players, they travel in private jets. Caddies fly commercial. Coach, 'cause we pay our own way. Players stay in five-star hotels. We double up in cheap motels by the highway."

  "Will you take a polygraph?"

  "To prove I stayed in cheap motels?"

  "To prove you didn't kill Trey."

  "No one said I did."

  "You stayed in Austin Thursday night?"

  "I live there."

  "Any witnesses?"

  "That I live there?"

  "That you stayed in Austin that night."

  Goose finished off the beer, belched, and dropped the can by the golf bag.

  "I got drunk that night."

  "Where?" Scott said.

  "Broken Spoke."

  "Anyone who'd remember you being there Thursday night?"

  "The other regulars won't remember they were there."

  "What about the bartender?"

  "It ain't that kind of place. It's a dance hall."

  "So you got drunk in a dance hall but no one can vouch for you. Pretty vague alibi, Goose."

  "Didn't know I needed one."

  "Six days since he died—you don't seem too upset."

  "He treated me like shit."

  "And he fired you."

  "You think I killed him 'cause he fired me?" He spit. "Hell, if caddies killed their pros for firing them, tour wouldn't have enough players to field a foursome."

  "Trey owed you a hundred thousand."

  Goose eyes flashed dark. "Damn right he did. I was gonna sue the bastard. I can't now … Can I?"

  "And he humiliated you on TV, replaced you with a Mexican girl."

  "He banged her after the round."

  "What?"

  "Yeah, Rebecca got the runs, drinking the water. While she's stuck in the bathroom, Trey's humping the Mexican gal in a pool cabaña."

  Scott glanced at Nick; he gave Scott a "heck if I know" shrug. Scott turned back to Goose. "A hundred-thousand-dollar debt—that's a pretty good motive."

  "So is screwing my wife."

  "You don't have a wife," Nick said.

  Goose gestured at Scott. "I meant him … and Brett."

  "Brett?" Nick said.

  "Who's he?" Scott said.

  "Brett McBride. Tour player, ranked two-eighty-seven in the world."

  Scott turned to Goose: "Trey was—?"

  Goose nodded. "Screwing his wife."

  Nick's mouth dropped open. "Trey was screwing Tess?"

  Goose chuckled. "Who wasn't?"

  "When?" Scott asked.

  "Whenever he could."

  "How long do you think he was?"

  Goose shrugged. "I don't know. I never saw him naked."

  "No. How long do you think he was screwing Tess?"

  "Oh. They hooked up at the Hope back in January."

  Scott turned to Nick. "You didn't know?"

  Nick shook his head. "I tell my athletes, if I don't get twenty percent, I don't want to know about it."

  "You know her? This Tess?"

  Nick nodded. "Everyone knows Tess, if you know what I mean. Brett was a judge in the Miss Hooters pageant in Vegas last year. She was runner-up, they got married five months later, at the Reno tournament."

  "And you represent him, too?"

  Nick nodded again. Scott turned back to Goose.

  "A jealous husband … Did Brett know?"

  "They're still married."

  "Did Rebecca know?"

  "I don't think so." He pulled a thick cigar out of the golf bag, bit off the tip, and spit it across the practice tee. "Trey was an idiot, taking a chance on losing her over Tess. I mean, Tess is hot, sure, but Rebecca's world-class gorgeous. She had options out here, could've switched bags anytime she wanted."

  "Trey ever mention to you that he was going to marry her? Rebecca."

  "Nope."

  Goose dug around in his shirt pocket, pulled out a wooden match, and struck it on the bottom of the golf bag until it
ignited. He put the flame to the cigar and puffed until the cigar caught fire. He took a long drag and exhaled smoke then gave Scott a thoughtful look.

  "Lawyering for your ex—what's that all about? She must be paying you a boatload of Trey's money."

  "She's indigent."

  "Hell, I'd be pissed off, too, way Trey treated her."

  "Not indignant. Indigent. Means she doesn't have any money. All of Trey's money goes to his sister."

  Goose grunted. "He stiffed her, too, huh? Figures." He sucked on the cigar and blew out smoke. "You know, I've always wondered something, about Rebecca?"

  "What's that?"

  "Is she a natural redhead?"

  "Goose, as a general rule, I don't punch caddies, but I'm willing to make an exception with you."

  Goose grinned. "Still touchy about the ex, huh? Wait'll you got three of them." He stood and said, "I gotta pee … fucking prostate."

  Goose hefted the big bag. He ducked under the rope that kept the fans off the range and walked off. He didn't pick up his beer can.

  "Are they here? Brett and Tess?"

  Nick shook his head. "Brett played this morning—today's the pro-am—then had a corporate gig this afternoon. Tess goes with him, makes him seem more attractive, if you know what I mean."

  "They'll be here through Sunday?"

  "If his play this year holds true, Brett'll miss the cut, fly home Friday night. You want to talk to them, you'd better come out tomorrow or Friday. I'll be here."

  Scott pulled a pen from his pocket. He squatted and inserted the pen into the top opening of Goose's beer can.

  "I'll buy you a beer, Scott."

  "I don't want the beer. I want Goose's fingerprints."

  "Why?"

  Scott looked up at Nick. "Because Goose might've stuck that butcher knife in Trey Rawlins' chest."

  SIXTEEN

  "Galveston nine-one-one. What's your emergency?"

  "There's a knife in his chest!"

  "Whose chest?"

  "There's blood everywhere!"

  "Whose blood?"

  "I think he's dead!"

  "Who's dead?"

  "Someone killed him!"

  "Who?"

  "Trey! Trey Rawlins!"

  "The golfer?"

  "Yes!"

  "Ma'am, I'm dispatching police to your location."

  "Thank God! Hurry!"

  "Who killed him?"

  "I don't know."

  "Is anyone else in the house?"

  "I … I don't know. I hope not."

  "Where are you?"

  "In our bedroom."

  "Stay there. Stay on the phone until the police arrive."

  "I hear the sirens. Tell them to come up the back stairs. The doors are open. I'm right inside."

  "What's your name?"

  "Rebecca Fenney."

  "Stay with me, Rebecca."

  A few minutes passed. The dispatcher's voice could be heard in the background and Rebecca's intermittent "Oh, God" and "Trey" and "So much blood."

  Then the dispatcher's voice came back on. "You still with me, Rebecca?"

  Her voice sounded weak: "Yes."

  "Rebecca, the police are there."

  In the background: "Police! We're coming in!"

  "I'm in here! Thank God you're here!"

  "Ma'am, are you okay?"

  "Yes."

  "Don't move until we clear the house."

  Only her breathing could be heard and then a voice in the background: "House is clear. Ma'am, hang up the phone, I've got dispatch on my radio … Dispatch, it's a murder scene. Send out homicide, M.E., crime scene … Shit, send everyone." A pause. "The poor bastard."

  The tape ended, and they sat without speaking. It was the next morning, and Scott and Bobby were sitting in the Jetta in the parking lot across 34th Street from St. Patrick's Catholic Church listening to the 911 call on the CD player and looking at the crime scene photos of Rebecca with Trey Rawlins' blood streaked down her face like war paint. Parked on the street was a satellite TV truck; loitering outside the church doors was Renée Ramirez in a tight short skirt.

  "The D.A. was right," Bobby said.

  "About what?"

  "Renée. She does have great legs."

  Inside Our Lady of Guadalupe Chapel under a twelve-story-tall bell tower, the funeral mass for Trey Rawlins was taking place. Bobby pointed at the church.

  "Did you know that after the Great Storm, they raised this entire island above sea level, six feet on the bay side, seventeen feet on the Gulf side? That church weighs three thousand tons. They jacked it up and filled in underneath. They wanted storm water to flow to the bay side. It worked. Problem was, Ike flooded the Island from the bay side."

  "I didn't know that. How'd you know that?"

  "Tourist guide, at the beach house." He shrugged. "Wife's seven months' pregnant. I read in bed a lot."

  "Me, too."

  "You don't have a wife."

  "That's why I read in bed."

  Bobby grunted. "You think the caddie killed Trey?"

  "Goose has big hands and a good motive—a hundred thousand dollars."

  "A bus token will get you killed in some parts of Dallas. You gonna take his prints to the D.A.?"

  "Tomorrow, at the grand jury. We wouldn't get them back in time anyway, and Rex wouldn't stop the indictment even if Goose's prints match those on the kitchen counter, not with Rebecca's prints on the murder weapon. After the hearing, I'm going back out to the tournament, talk to Brett and Tess McBride, get their prints. Trey and Tess, that's a good motive for a jealous husband. You were right, Trey cheated on Rebecca."

  "She cheated on you, he cheated on her. Funny how that works."

  "Yeah. Funny."

  "Least we've got more suspects." Bobby ticked them off on his fingers. "The three unidentified sets of prints at the house, the construction workers—"

  "Is Carlos on that?"

  "He hired on yesterday." Back to his fingers. "Goose, Brett, and …"

  "Rebecca." Bobby nodded. "She didn't sound like a killer on that 911 call."

  "No, she didn't. But her prints were on that knife stuck in Trey's chest."

  "The others had motives, Bobby. She didn't."

  "Unless she knew about Trey and Tess."

  "Yeah. Unless." Scott considered that possibility. "Only if Trey were leaving her for Tess. What else?"

  "Karen's reviewing Trey's endorsement contracts—"

  SSI's legal department had released copies without a subpoena.

  —"and running assets searches on Trey and Rebecca. I've been through the murder book, read all the witness statements and police reports. I'm waiting for the final autopsy report, toxicology, and DNA."

  "Grand jury will indict tomorrow, we'll fast-track the trial, you and Karen prep for that."

  "Yep. Oh, I went out to Trey's country club, talked to the assistant pro. He said Trey came out that morning, Thursday, but he left just after noon, didn't come back."

  "Rebecca said he practiced all day, while she shopped in Houston."

  "He lied."

  "About a lot of things."

  Bobby gestured at the church. "They're coming out."

  He grabbed the camcorder and filmed the funeral guests exiting the church.

  "That's Trey's sister," Rebecca said. "Terri hates me."

  The image on the screen was of a young woman in a black dress. Scott, Bobby, Karen, and Rebecca were inside watching the funeral tape. The girls were outside with Consuela and the baby. Louis was watching them. Carlos was roofing.

  "Why?"

  "She thought I was too old for him, didn't want him to marry me. At least that's what he said." She shook her head. "I should've gone to the funeral."

  "Media was there," Scott said. "Wouldn't have been good." He pointed at the screen. "There's the D.A. and his wife, Tom Taylor and his." An older man in a suit and a woman walked next to them. "Who's that?"

  "I don't know."

  On the screen,
Renée Ramirez stuck a microphone in the D.A.'s face, but he waved her off. She wasn't happy.

  "Rebecca, you should stay here at the house."

  "Why?"

  "That reporter—"

  "Renée."

  "You know her?"

  "Everyone on the Island knows Renée. She did a profile of Trey."

  "If she finds out you're here, she'll set up camp out front."

  She gestured at the screen. "Where's Nick? Didn't he come?"

  "No."

  "That's odd. I don't see any of the tour players. First round of the tournament in Houston is today, but still … you'd think some of the players would've come."

  "Freeze that frame, Bobby." On the screen was the image of a very pretty and very young blonde woman. She looked like a high school girl. "Is that Tess McBride?"

  "No, that's Billie Jean Puckett. Pete's daughter. I don't see Pete."

  "What does he look like?"

  "Like Rambo with a two-iron."

  "She looks like a kid."

  "She's only seventeen. She used to caddie for Pete, until he picked up Goose."

  "After Trey fired him."

  "Down in Mexico." She frowned. "You don't think Goose killed Trey?"

  "Trey didn't pay Goose the hundred thousand he owed him. Goose wasn't happy about it. Bobby, fast forward to the cemetery."

  The tape sped up then slowed to normal speed. The scene showed a crowd gathered around a gravesite in a cemetery crowded with tall tombstones and small mausoleums as the casket was lowered into the ground. After the burial, the crowd lingered a while then drifted away. Except for Billie Jean Puckett.

  "Why'd she stay after everyone else left?" Rebecca said. "Why'd she come?"

  They watched the image on the tape. The girl sat next to the grave and seemed to be sobbing. Rebecca stared silently at the screen. Finally, she turned to Scott.

  "Why'd you think she was Tess?"

  "Rebecca … Goose said Trey was having an affair with Tess."

  She shook her head. "No. Tess played around, a lot, but not with Trey. We were friends, she wouldn't do that to me. Neither would Trey."

  "You did it to me."

  "I'm sorry, Scott."

  "No. I mean, it happens. Even when you think it'd never happen."

  "I would've known."

  "I didn't."

  "Will you take a polygraph?"

  "To prove I didn't know about Tess?"